


i still worship the flame

by Singofsolace



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Murder, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 06:48:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26348860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Singofsolace/pseuds/Singofsolace
Summary: What if Dorcas hadn't screamed? What if the Academy awoke to both Blackwood and the Antipope assassinated? What if the Dark Lord did indeed "christen" Zelda?An extremely dark retelling of Part Two.
Relationships: Hilda Spellman & Zelda Spellman, The Dark Lord | Satan/Zelda Spellman
Comments: 58
Kudos: 93





	i still worship the flame

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a lyric lifted from Hozier's "Would that I." The whole line is: "Though I've handled the wood, I still worship the flame."
> 
> This fic is intense. Please know that I do not write this subject lightly. Heed the tags.

“What time is it, Hilda?” asked Zelda, standing abruptly from where she sat next to her sister on the bed. “Surely the Dark Lord would’ve come by now, if he were coming?”

Hilda eyed her sister’s tense body language with concern as she paced in front of her. She’d never known Zelda to be nervous or unsure when it came to sex. Ever since they were teenagers, her sister had been the most intensely sex-positive witch she knew, but then again, this tradition was hardly in the same vein as others, like Lupercalia.

Trying to radiate calming energy despite the churning in her stomach, Hilda said, “There is nothing to be scared about tonight.”

“I’m not scared in the least—" Zelda lied through her teeth, her expression a mixture of wounded pride and poorly-hidden distress.

“I know—”

“It is the greatest honor to be visited by the Dark Lord. He only picks the most devout brides to… _christen_ on their wedding eve.”

Hilda disliked the euphemism— _christen_. Zelda was never usually the kind to use euphemisms when it came to sex, and so it seemed a particularly calculated and odd choice of words. Why hide from the reality? Why not call it what it was? Hilda knew why, and would’ve accepted the same word in anyone else’s mouth but her sister’s, because Zelda Spellman was never one to sugarcoat the truth.

“Then there’s no more devout a witch than you, Zelda Spellman,” Hilda said, slightly sardonically, as she watched Zelda continue to pace.

“Hmm,” Zelda murmured as she turned on her heel and brought her hands up to spin the rings on her fingers.

Watching her sister pace back and forth, Hilda’s thoughts drifted away. While it was certainly true that Zelda was fiercely devout these days, Hilda remembered a time when her sister was rebellious and headstrong, much like Sabrina, though Zelda would call her a liar if she so much as suggested a single similarity between them. When they were in the Academy together, Zelda had often challenged the traditions of the Church of Night, especially those that she saw as discriminatory or abusive towards women.

In fact, it wasn’t until after Zelda’s first Dark Devotion had dragged on for years that she became fervently religious—the timeline of which Hilda only knew because they shared a room. She’d catch a glimpse every now and then of the Devil’s claw stretched from the base of her sister’s spine all the way up to her shoulders. She’d asked Zelda once—only once—why she continued to defy Him, when, surely, her task couldn’t be bad enough to warrant the constant pain of the mark? But Zelda refused to discuss it.

To this day, Hilda wondered what the Dark Lord had made her sister do to prove her loyalty. It couldn’t have been as inconsequential as pressing a button on an empty wooden box for Zelda’s rebelliousness to slowly whittle away. And while He’d only called on Hilda once, she was certain the Dark Lord had tasked Zelda on numerous occasions, as Vinegar Tom’s unique and untimely death had the word “punishment” written all over it.

Hilda had travelled to London at the earliest opportunity specifically to get away from this sort of thing. She’d warned her sister that the Church of Night was going down a dangerous road—one that not even Edward Spellman would be able to change—but Zelda didn’t listen. Never listened. Not since her last Dark Devotion—

Deciding the silence between them had gone on just a bit too long, Hilda tore herself from her thoughts in order to try to reassure her sister from a different angle.

“And He may not visit… and that’s okay too.”

Zelda paused in her pacing, giving a short, sharp nod, before taking one last look at the door and then turning bodily away from it. Through their empathic connection, Hilda could sense an incredible flood of blasphemous _relief_ wash over her sister as she rushed back towards the bed, a glimmer of hope in her eyes.

“Perhaps you’re right, Hilda. Perhaps the Dark Lord won’t come.”

As if summoned by their doubt—by their _sacrilege_ —a deep growl could be heard from just outside the room before the Dark Lord threw open the door, announcing his arrival with an angry roar that confirmed they’d been caught in a moment of weakness, of cowardice, of disloyalty.

Hilda stood up, not wanting to show any more blatant disrespect now that He had arrived. The distinct smell of brimstone tickled her nose.

Zelda refused to look, her whole body suddenly trembling like a leaf in the wind. She kept her eyes trained on Hilda, not the Devil at her door, as she whispered, “He hath come for me.”

Hilda Spellman would never forget the sheer terror in her sister’s eyes as she realized she was about to be— _christened_. She was certain the fear and panic in Zelda’s voice would haunt her nightmares for decades to come. No matter how insistent Zelda had been that a visit from the Dark Lord on her wedding eve would be an honor, Hilda could see right through the false bravado. It didn’t take empathic or psychic abilities for Hilda to know in her heart that Zelda didn’t want this to happen.

But what could be done about it? Two mere witches were no match for an angel—even a fallen one.

“I… I’ll just slip on out then,” said Hilda, trying not to be sick as bile climbed up her throat.

Turning her back and walking away from the scene when her sister was so clearly petrified was one of the hardest things Hilda had ever had to do. The moment she was in the adjoining room, she had a desperate urge to go right back out into the bedroom and try to reason with the Dark Lord on Zelda’s behalf, however suicidal that choice would be. Her right hand still clutched the door handle with a white-knuckled grip as she warred with herself.

Surely, they could strike some sort of bargain? The Dark Lord loved making deals. But even as she thought about stepping back into Zelda’s room, she heard the distinct _click_ of a lock being turned by magical means. Hilda tested the door, only to hiss in pain as a white-hot burst of electricity zapped her hand away.

It would seem the Dark Lord didn’t want to be interrupted.

Through the door, Hilda heard heavy footsteps followed by a sharp intake of breath. She didn’t want to hear this. Couldn’t hear it. For a moment, Hilda seriously debated casting a silencing spell. It was the least she could do, she thought, to give Zelda even a modicum of privacy… but something about hiding behind a curtain of silence felt like an act of betrayal—of abandonment. Being her sister’s Maid of Dishonor meant bearing witness.

_(A growl. A grunt._

_A gasp.)_

Witness.

But Hilda wasn’t as strong as Zelda. At least, she wasn’t strong in the same _way_ as Zelda. Hilda didn’t have the constitution to witness… this. She’d never been keen on suffering for her faith, meanwhile Zelda would flagellate herself at the drop of a hat if the High Priest wished it— _ordered_ it—so.

Hilda closed her eyes against the sound of the bed creaking, of fabric tearing, of pure, animalistic _frenzy._

_(A snarl. A thump._

_A whimper.)_

Hilda’s stomach flipped. She pressed her forehead against the door, her breathing labored. She couldn’t listen to her sister being raped. She couldn’t do it. Gathering her energy, she tried to force the door open with her magic, but it wouldn’t budge.

_(A crash. A cry._

_A yelp.)_

Hilda pressed her back against the door and slid down it, trying very hard not to let the tears fall. She covered her mouth with her hand to keep the sound of the first traitorous sob muffled, though she doubted her sister would hear it, as the Dark Lord let out a long, satisfied roar at the same moment.

* * *

Prudence Night slipped into her father’s room with ease, dagger in hand. She’d respected and feared Father Blackwood for as long as she could remember, but looking at him now, fast asleep, she had nothing but hatred for him.

She raised the dagger over her head, ready to plunge it into his chest.

Suddenly, his eyes snapped open.

“Prudence?”

Not giving him a chance to cast a spell, Prudence focused all of her power and energy into driving the dagger deep into his heart. It was surprisingly easy to do. Prudence had used this very same dagger on many a Queen of the Feast. As such, she had no trouble cutting out her father’s heart with precision.

Killing Faustus Blackwood was no great hardship, no matter the blood relation. He had denied Prudence her birthright from the moment she was born. He’d told her she was an orphan—had raised her to believe she was an urchin—one that the Church of Night had so graciously welcomed into its fold.

He’d killed her mother, albeit indirectly, and ever since Judas was born, he’d shown his true colors. He only cared for male children. It didn’t matter that she was his first born; she would always be second-best. She would always be less-than.

Always.

But no more.

Prudence made quick work of removing her father’s heart. The heart of a warlock was an extremely rare but powerful ingredient in many forbidden spells. She would be sure to save it for a special occasion.

Deciding her work was done, Prudence cast a few spells to ensure the damage to the body looked far more severe than it was, as if there were multiple assassins with various weapons involved. She didn’t want anything to be traced back to her, and so she added a signature of witch hunters—a bow and arrow—into the mix. She thrust the arrow right between her father’s ribs and twisted it, for good measure.

Faustus Blackwood was no more.

* * *

Enoch of Antioch died in his sleep.

That is, he didn’t wake, not even when the first boy slit his throat, or the second stabbed his chest, or the third, his stomach. He was dead long before the three bewitched boys awoke from their stupor, covered in his blood.

Ambrose, the brightest of the bunch, decided the only way they would survive till morning was if they staged the death to look like witch hunters had done it. And so, they turned their blades on each other, ensuring no vital systems were hit, but that it would appear as though they fought long and hard to keep the Antipope alive.

It would take time to investigate what had happened to them—what had caused them all to kill the Antipope in cold blood—but Ambrose Spellman could only hope and pray that the coverup would fool Blackwood, at the very least.

* * *

Hilda’s head was buried between her knees when silence finally fell in the next room. Wary of being shocked by electricity again, Hilda used the tip of her finger to test the handle of the door. She was surprised but incredibly relieved to discover that the magic had vanished. She tentatively turned the handle, and let out a long breath when the lock clicked and the door opened.

Any relief Hilda had felt at being able to enter the room, however, was quickly overshadowed by her horror.

Zelda Spellman was face-down on the bed, with the Dark Lord nowhere to be seen. Hilda rushed to her side, wary of treading on the torn silk that littered the ground.

“Zelda?” said Hilda tentatively, longing to reach out to her. She stopped short of touching her sister’s back, however, because of the freshly-opened wounds there. Hilda’s stomach twisted, not knowing if these were completely new marks, or if the Dark Lord had simply added to the mess of what Zelda and Faustus had already made of her back.

Zelda turned her face to the side, her eyes unseeing. “Hilda?”

“Yes, love?”

Zelda attempted to push herself up from the bed, uncaring of her nakedness, but her arms trembled as she did. “Would you—”

“Zelds, don’t try to move just yet—”

“I’m not an invalid!” said Zelda, even as she let her body drop back down onto the bed. Her voice was contrite, if a bit hoarse, as she added, “Would you please run me a bath, sister?”

“Of course,” Hilda said, rushing to do just that in the adjacent bathroom.

Baths, she could handle. The rest of it… she wasn’t sure.

Hilda turned on the tap of the clawfoot tub, before setting to work on a balm that would soothe and heal… whatever needed healing. She took the largest, fluffiest towel out of the linen closet, and found some liquor hidden away in a cabinet beneath the sink. She conjured two glasses and poured a generous portion for each of them.

If ever there was a time to drink, Hilda thought, it would be now.

When the bath was nearly full, and all of the other amenities were in place, Hilda decided she couldn’t avoid it any longer, and walked back into her sister’s room.

Zelda looked far more in control of herself, now that she’d had a bit of time to recover. She sat on the end of the bed, much like they’d done earlier, only now, there was nothing and no one to wait for. She sported her satin robe once more, though Hilda could tell there was nothing underneath it any longer, and there was a long tear along one shoulder.

“The water is ready, sister,” said Hilda softly, moving to stand beside her.

Zelda’s eyes were still a bit glassy, but her gaze was steady as it settled on her. “Thank you, sister.”

“Is there anything else you need?” said Hilda, wondering if she ought to call for a doctor. She was a talented healer in her own right, but she hardly thought she could do proper magic when her nerves were so shot. The healing properties of the bath was as far as she would trust her own abilities, at the moment.

Zelda stood from the bed, though it took a great deal more effort than it had only a few hours ago. She wrapped her arms around her waist as she said, “No. Thank you, Hildie.”

Hilda nodded, but her brow furrowed as Zelda walked to side of the bed, rather than towards the bathroom.

“Is something wrong?” said Hilda, and she could kick herself for saying it, because clearly _everything_ was wrong.

Zelda was staring at the bedsheets, which prompted Hilda to look as well.

“You would think I was a virgin, wouldn’t you?” said Zelda, pulling her robe tighter about her body before shuffling away, towards the bathroom.

At first, Hilda didn’t understand. She was more focused on the scattered pillows, blankets, and flower petals, than on the sheets themselves. But when her eyes finally fell on the dark color pooled in the center of the bed, she had to turn away, lest she be sick.

Blood.

After breathing deeply for a moment, Hilda followed Zelda to the bathroom. Her sister had found the whiskey waiting on the counter, and had already drank at least half of the glass.

“I…” Zelda started, but swallowed instead of finishing her sentence.

“Yes?” said Hilda, longing to be useful, to make things right.

“I think I might need help… stepping into the tub,” admitted Zelda as she pressed the cool glass against her cheek.

“I’ll help, don’t you worry,” said Hilda, offering her hand.

Zelda eyed the extended hand for a moment before polishing off the rest of the whiskey in her glass. Slowly—more slowly than Hilda had ever known her sister to undress in her presence—Zelda slipped the robe off her body and let it pool at her feet.

Averting her eyes, Hilda took Zelda’s hand as they stepped closer to the clawfoot tub, but stopped moving when she realized Zelda wasn’t stepping in.

“What is it, Zelds?” said Hilda, making a point to stare at the bath, so as not to make her sister feel as if she were any more on display than need be.

“I don’t think…” Zelda started and stopped, swallowing thickly. “I don’t think I can lift my leg… over the side of the bath.”

Hilda shook her head against the invasive thoughts that came with that admission, and focused instead on problem solving.

“Why don’t you sit on the rim, and then swing your legs over?” said Hilda, motioning with her hands.

Slowly but surely, she got Zelda comfortably into the tub. Her sister hissed in pain as she slipped in, but after the initial shock of the hot water, she seemed to settle in nicely.

“Would you like me to leave?” said Hilda, but quickly added: “I don’t mean entirely—I just mean—I could go clean up your room, and let you soak for a bit?”

Hilda passed Zelda a washcloth, searching her sister’s face for any sign that she shouldn’t be left alone.

“I would appreciate that, Hilda,” Zelda said, her eyes soft as she took the cloth. As if sensing where Hilda’s mind had gone, she continued, “I promise I won’t… I promise, I’ll be fine.”

Hilda nodded, trying very hard to keep the anguish of the night off of her face. It was all hitting her at once, but she couldn’t very well break down in front of her sister, who had well and truly _suffered,_ rather than just listened at a door.

Hilda was on her way out when Zelda’s voice stopped her in her tracks. “I’m sorry, sister.”

Turning back so quickly she nearly gave herself whiplash, Hilda said, “Whatever for, love?”

Zelda dragged the washcloth over her left arm, which had bruises blooming across her bicep. “For worrying you. For… asking you to attend me. It’s such an… outdated tradition, I should never have expected you to witness it. I wouldn’t have blamed you if you refused.”

Zelda moved from her arm to her left collarbone, dragging the soft material across the redness there. Hilda tried to focus on her sister’s face, if only because she needed to be sure she was properly heard.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, Zelda. Nothing. I wouldn’t have wanted you to do this alone.”

Zelda paused in her ministrations, finally meeting her sister’s eyes. “You’ve always been… so good to me. Sometimes I wonder… what I ever did to deserve it.”

Hilda couldn’t keep the tears from falling—not now that they were speaking face to face and actually _seeing_ each other. “It’s not about ‘deserving,’ sister.”

The moment swelled between them until, finally, Zelda broke the intensity of the moment by picking up her washcloth once more to switch arms. Hilda slipped out, without another word, intent on cleaning up the mess so that they might both get at least a little bit of sleep tonight.

**Author's Note:**

> please let me know if you'd like to see this story continued. whether or not this fic gets a second chapter will depend entirely on its reception. 
> 
> (in case this sways you into leaving a comment/subscribing to the story: Lilith will be in the next chapter, if it does continue. I'm planning a long-form rape recovery fic where Zelda and Lilith help each other heal from the Dark Lord)


End file.
